37

He started broadcasting a looped SOS at 2,500 meters, but got only static. Hendricks was starting to come around. By two thousand meters, he was back to his hysterical babbling. Altman tried to ignore it. Through his earpiece, Altman caught brief bits of something that he recognized as a human voice submerged in a wash of static. By 1,700 meters, it was less static than voice, but Hendricks was shouting now, straining at his bonds.

“Michael Altman, please respond,” he finally heard the voice say. “Michael Altman, do you read?”

He turned the loop off and went live. “This is Altman,” he said.

The other voice started to answer and was suddenly interrupted. Markoff’s voice came on. “Altman?” he said. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Hendricks flipped out,” Altman said. “I’ve got him tied up. That’s him screaming in the background.”

“What happened?”

“Just a minute,” said Altman. Hendricks had started to work his way loose. He took off his shoes again, slowly crept up next to him. Altman? Markoff’s voice was saying in his ear. Are you all right, Altman? He struck Hendricks hard in the back of the head, twice, and he stopped moving.

“What was that sound?” asked Markoff.

“That sound was the sound of me trying to stay alive,” said Altman. He undid the ligature and re-hogtied Hendricks. “I’ll tell you more when I get to the surface,” he said. “Oh, and it might be a good idea to have a few guards on hand in the submarine bay.”

Markoff had started to speak again, but Altman turned the transmitter off. He began to think. It wasn’t likely that Hendricks would break free. As long as he didn’t forget about him, things would be okay. He looked out the observation porthole. The tatter of the pale pink substance was still there on the rivets, undulating slightly as the submarine rose. He knew if Markoff saw it, he’d take it away for testing by members of his inner circle and he, Altman, wouldn’t hear anything further about it. Same with the footage of the unusual fish.

He removed his holopod from his pocket and connected it to the console, then copied the vid footage of the fish onto it. He’d have to leave it in the system as well. Markoff and his minions would no doubt be able to tell if something had been erased, but maybe they wouldn’t be able to tell it had been copied. He had to try to find some answers on his own.

The pink swath was a little harder. But a plan began to form in his mind.

He checked the pulse signal monitor. The signal had fallen off again. He checked back through the history. If the pattern continued, it should start to rise again.

What he was planning to do was dangerous. No doubt Ada would tell him to leave well enough alone, that he was only likely to get himself killed. Which was why he would never tell her about it. Maybe she was right, but his desire to know was much too great.

He slowed the bathyscaphe as he came up, trying to time it so that the signal would be strongest and Hendricks would be regaining consciousness just at the moment the craft moved into the submarine bay.

Hendricks was groaning, his eyes fluttering, by the time they were fully in. Altman knelt down and undid the ligature that hogtied Hendricks, then undid the rope around his legs but left his hands tied. He unrolled one of the ropes and tore a square of fabric off it, which he tucked into his pocket. Then he helped Hendricks get to his knees.

It was cruel, but he couldn’t think of another way.

“Where’s your father, Hendricks?” he asked.

The man’s eyes focused briefly then moved independently of each other, wandering about the sockets.

“Hendricks,” he said again. He had to hurry. The bay was almost drained down to the catwalk. Soon enough water would be pumped out and the guards would be there. “Where’s your father?”

Hendricks’s eyes focused again and this time stayed focused. “My father,” he said. “He was just right here.”

“We left him down there,” suggested Altman. “We abandoned him. You abandoned him.”

For a moment there was no response, and then, abruptly, Hendricks let out an ungodly howl of pain and slammed his head into Altman’s chest. It hurt like hell. Then he fell on top of Altman, slavering, trying to bite his face.

Altman got his hands up against his shoulders and tried desperately to hold him away, watching the man bare his teeth and shake his head like a wild animal. But he was too heavy, was bearing down too hard, his teeth getting closer and closer to Altman’s face. He cried out and pushed out as hard as he could, genuinely terrified now, trying to roll him off but failing.

Just when he thought he couldn’t hold him back any more, the bathyscaphe’s hatch hissed open and a guard dropped in and wrapped an arm around Hendricks’s neck. Altman scrambled back and away, dodging a second guard who had dropped down and scurrying up the ladder to the hatch. There was a group of guards around the hatch, pointing their weapons at him when he came out. He pushed past and, stumbling, rolled off the curve of the bathyscaphe not onto the catwalk but into the water.

He had only a few seconds. Holding his breath, he floundered briefly to the observation porthole, tugging the square of cloth from his pocket and using it to gather up the pale pink swath. Through the porthole he caught a glimpse of Hendricks struggling with the two guards, who had forced him back to the floor. He balled up the sodden cloth and thrust it deep into his pocket and returned to the surface.

He broke to shouts and cries. Hands were immediately there, pulling him onto the catwalk and out of the water. Somebody wrapped a blanket around him.

“Don’t kill Hendricks!” he heard himself shouting. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing!” And then he was hustled out.